The Bodyguard’s Weakness
The job is just three simple rules: Protect the mafia don’s granddaughter, make sure she has whatever she needs, and don’t go to bed with and wake up accidentally married to her.
On second thought, there’s a chance those rules aren’t so simple after all…
I’ve worked and bled my whole life to get to where I’m at as a Captain in the Scaliami Syndicate. I’ve pulled no punches. I’ve suffered no BS, not from anyone.
Now, I’m supposed to play bodyguard to a gorgeous, innocent, and very much off-limits mafia princess during her trip to the States. Lucia Scaliami is out of bounds, ill-advised; verboten. Looking at her could cost an eye. Touching her could destroy an empire.
I’m supposed to be keeping her safe. And I’m pretty damn sure I’m not supposed to wind up in bed and in-matrimony with her.
Whoops.
Now, what happens in Vegas could very well put me in the ground. But I don’t care. I’ve seen what I truly want from this life.
And I’ll be damned if I let her get away from me.
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1
Dominic
Fuck me, that’s a great ass.
Whoever made yoga pant leggings a fashion hit deserves a Nobel Prize. Whoever introduced them to the wardrobe of the girl in front of me at the coffee shop deserves to be sainted. Tight, black, and hugging every single inch of those curves.
Hell, I could stand here all day staring at that butt. And the legs attached to it. And the curvy waist, and the long blonde hair. But I don’t have all day. Actually, I barely have ten minutes. I’m not yet, but I’m about to be late for a meeting. And it’s the kind of meeting you make damn fucking sure you ain’t late for.
Being late for a meeting with Micheal Genovisi, the head of the US operations of the Scaliami crime family is a bad idea. Being late for a meeting with Micheal and Don Salvestro Scaliami himself, visiting from Sicily? Well, that could be a fatal idea.
But I’ve been up for almost twenty-four hours. I was on a job last night with Vincent, Micheal’s right hand man. Again, that’s an invitation you don’t say no to. When the second in command of the family you’ve bled and killed for says “I have a job for you,” you say when and what. And that’s it. Even if it means pulling an all-nighter. That’s why I’m still standing here in this goddamn cafe line.
Well, that and the ass in front of me.
If I wasn’t dead tired, I’d be heading up the block to the office Micheal keeps here in the Flatiron District of New York. But I’m fading from lack of sleep, and a triple espresso is the only thing that’s going to get me back from the edge.
That is, if this girl in front of me ever manages to make up her fucking mind. Great ass or not, this girl is fucking killing me. Possibly literally, if I don’t get my ass moving soon. My eyes finally drag from her ass. They move up the back of her shimmery top, the gaudy fashionista purse, the perfectly done blonde hair. I glare at her. Hurry. The. Fuck. Up. I mutter to myself.
“No, no, something not sweet? I’m just not sure what I might like.”
I roll my eyes. Jesus fucking Christ, it’s a Starbucks. Who the fuck has never been to a Starbucks before?
“It’s the same damn menu in every store, you know,” I grunt under my breath. The girl stiffens. Shit, maybe not so under my breath. She half turns. She glances at me sidelong through thick dark sunglasses.
“Excuse me?” She’s got an accent. Not a thick one, but I can hear it. Maybe Italian, but what do I know.
“I said it’s the same menu they’ve got everywhere.”
“And?”
“And some people have shit to do,” I grunt. I glance back at the line forming behind me. The guy directly behind me smirks and nods in agreement. So does the lady with a phone to her ear behind him. I turn my attention back to the prima donna standing at the counter. “See?”
She shrugs and looks back at the barista. “Do you have oat milk?”
I groan and roll my eyes. “Hey, princess?”
With her back still to me, she slowly raises a hand. Actually, it’s more of a fist. But then she raises one finger. You can guess which one.
“Cute,” I mutter. I glance at my watch. Fucking hell, I’m out of time. “Look,” I growl at the barista. I pull out a twenty from my wallet. “Triple espresso, please. Keep the change.”
“I’m sorry, is this how it works here?” Blondie with the great ass snaps.
“It’s how it works when you waste everyone’s time, yeah.”
“Well maybe I’d have an easier time ordering if the creep behind me wasn’t staring at my ass.”
I frown. There’s a murmur behind me. I turn around and see the lady on her phone glaring at me. “I wasn’t…”
“Yes, you were.”
The barista guy looks like he wants to be almost literally anywhere else on earth than right here. Blondie turns back to him. “Hmmm…”
“Look, can you please just fucking order? Or stand aside and let everyone else get the fuck on with their live—”
“I’ll take a drip coffee. Grande. Black.”
I stare at the back of her head incredulously. “Are you serious right now?”
She ignores me and slides her card to pay for her coffee. I want to fight it, but I can’t. My eyes lose the fight and drop to her ass one more time. This time when I pull them back up, she’s facing me. To-go coffee in hand, she smirks at me through those sunglasses. And damn, her ass might be amazing, but those lips? God help me.
“Take a picture next time,” she smiles. “It’ll last longer.”
I glare at her. I want to tell her to get fucked. But I can’t. Not because it’s a crowded cafe and that would be socially weird of me to do. But even with sunglasses on, I can tell she’s gorgeous. I mean stunningly, jaw-droppingly gorgeous.
She smirks at me. Her full pouty lips turn up at the corners. “Nice comeback. Now please, order your mocha frappuccino with caramel.”
I glare at her. “It was a triple espresso.”
“Sure it was.” Her smile is totally patronizing. She strolls past me with a smirk. Her hand raises, and she pats my chest. “Have a nice life, douchebag.”
“Go fuck yourself, princess.”
“Well one of us has to get it done, and I can promise, it’s not gonna be you!”
I turn and watch dumbfounded as she strolls out. I’m not gonna lie. I’m staring at that ass. There’s a cough behind me. I turn and see the barista raising a to-go cup to me.
“Thanks,” I mutter. I take the espresso and drop the twenty on the counter.
“So do you, uh, want change?”
I glare at him. “Yes.”
I take my phone out in the elevator on the way up to the office. I glare at it. Not my phone. My new, temporary phone. Mine ate shit down a flight of stairs the other day, and I’m waiting for a replacement. In the meantime, I’m using a throwaway iPhone knockoff that Vincent gave me.